While you were gone
we pillaged your provender.
Husky heads of lettuce fed us
for days on end. (Do you mind?)
We eyed the tomatoes jealously
but obviously they weren’t ready––
too pinchy-green. (You know
what I mean.) By the time they’re
ripe you may travel again. We’ll
gladly look after your place if
you let us know.
Dr. Frankenstein you name yourself
as you piece together a 1930 Ford.
Like a patchwork quilt, piece by piece
from bumper to bumper you build.
Books with photos and diagrams
lie open around the house for reference
with stacks of magazines always at hand
for the images of crankcase and fender
you need; for the names and addresses
of dealers of car parts. When you spoke
to a friend long-distance, you mentioned
you’d adopted a car. That said it all.
Enamored of all about the beloved
––by the eye, the hand, the trembling mouth––
the lover is undone.
For me, it’s egg salad sandwiches.’’
Inspired by a distant view of The People
––breeding, borning, living, dying––
the revolutionary is undone.
But for me, it’s egg salad sandwiches.
Give me a wedding where the budget is low
guests on folding chairs row on row
plates piled high with the hens’ sweet roe.
Yes, for me it’s egg salad sandwiches.
Soggy white triangles with hardening crust
preferably no lettuce but mayo a must.
The newlyweds plight their troth and their trust.
As for me, it’s egg salad sandwiches.